RIGHTEOUS FURY.

( and emperor iedolas grows madder with each day, the servants whisper frightfully. he hears voices and sees faces whrre there are none. if ravus were to storm in, would the ghost of the king consort of tenebrae take his place before the emperor's eyes? )

❝  either i succeed or i cripple his majesty's full military forces which he has so gracefully gifted to me. ❞ this is perhaps the first time in years in which he has spoken words that hold a vague air of treason. the implication of potential sabotage could cost him his head should the wrong ears overhear. when glauca fell, there were hisses amongst the jealous crowds who still suspected the former boy - king held lingering loyalties of his kingdom of ash. bestowing his oppressor's military with such a heavy title was akin to giving him the keys to the kingdom. he would bring ruination, some claimed, but their concerns were waved away. those few were right to suspect and fear. this decision would be their own undoing.

even in this moment of anger though, he retains common sense to not elaborate any further than that. he intends to have this mattered settled at once. but lunafreya -- frustratingly stubborn & self - sacrificing as always is she -- stands before him, the obstacle to her own salvation.

❝ lunafreya,  ❞ a warning edge to his tone, exasperation and frustration which are merely extensions of his love. ❝ stand aside. i am ordering you as the high commander, not your brother. ❞

   my  son.  /  our  son.  aranea  rests,  because  it  is  much  needed.  what  she  does  not  need  in  a  moment  such  as  now  as  him  stumbling  over  words  and  a  thousand  thankful  love  proclamations.  but  that  is  exactly  what  she  has  been  receiving  for  the  past  several  minutes  or  so.  i  love  you.  i  love  you  more  than  the  astrals  think  possible  of  love’s  capabilities.  i  love  you.  do  you  hear  me?  i  love  you.

  (  our  son.  the  ancestry  tree  of  house  nox  fleuret  had  wilted,  faltered.  some  branches  had  been  severed  prematurely,  there  was  fear  for  the  future.  but  come  spring,  come  bloom.  there  is  hope ;  he  is hope.  )

   what  is  the  weight  of  the  boy,  one  must  wonder,  for  his  arms  are  weighted  down.  the  steel  of  his  false  limb  has  never  felt  heavier.  his  entire  being  threatens  to  collapse,  he  was  wise  to  remain  seated.  his  son’s  cries  have  settled  to  a  quiet  mewl,   head  resting  comfortably  in  the  crook  of  his  arm.  it  was  akin  to  two  puzzle  pieces,  made  to  fit  together.  

❝   you have bestowed me the greatest joy. ❞ his voice quivers, all the steel rusts and weakens, all the ice melts away. all that remains is the man of mortal flesh. his mismatched eyes are tear - streaked. no words of gratitude will ever suffice, this much he knows. ❝ there is no entity, mortal or immortal, that could ever compare to your ethereal complexion, your magnetic presence, nor the scorching inferno of your spirit. and thus, i shall say it again — i love you, aranea. ❞

SPRING.     the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair.   lightning when it strikes.    cherry blossoms.   bright mornings.   the first sign of hope.   the relief of finding something you lost.  paris in the spring.    birds chirping.    the art of growing.    a kiss on the cheek.    the clap of thunder.   a tornado in the valley.    smiling at a stranger.    planning.    saccharine pinks.    making promises.   trying something new.    hugs when you need them most.    a bee sting.    sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm.   picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun.   that feeling you get when you put on a good dress.    a long hike.  rushing when you can take your time.   going to the gym/training at ungodly hours.   excitement for what’s coming.  becoming yourself.    rain boots.

SUMMER.     lanterns lit around a campfire.  seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again.   melting ice cream.   the warmth of sun rays upon skin.  fireworks.  the feeling of never wanting something to end.    beach days.    the lone blow up floaty left in the pool.    drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else. music blasting at 3am, loud and proud.     palms trees on sunset boulevard.   longer days and shorter nights.   wanderlust.   nights spent staring at the stars.    sand castles.   road trips.   blood orange sunsets.  leaving the laundry to hang outside.   flowers in bloom.   sneaking out of your room late at night.    pure contentment.    barefoot in the sand.  the street lights coming on.    the sound of the ocean in a seashell.    freshly squeezed lemonade.   loose clothing.   a cannonball into the pool.   sunflowers.   the hazy pink before dusk.  relaxation.

FALL.     the leaves changing colours.    a heavy backpack.    the smell of old books.   eating until you’re stuffed.    deep, dark woods.    the silence in loudness.   abandoned houses.   ripped jeans.   crunching leaves beneath feet.   feeling like you’ve been somewhere before.   sitting at a bay window.  having endless amount of work.   charcoal drawings.   screaming into a pillow as loud as you can.    pumpkin patches.    creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change.   museums.     small talk.  being ignored.    procrastinating.   a door slamming shut.    going to bed early.    baking pies.    the fear of walking alone in the dark.   feeling  completely and terribly lost.   a twig snapping.   crisp, cool days.    belly laughter after crying.    converse.    foggy mornings at the shoreline.   writing a daily entry in a journal.   a lonely day.

we  were  but  children  then  /  and  now  we  are  fickle  creatures  of  grief

HE  ENVISIONS  THE  SPECTRAL  OF  HIS  MOTHER  NOW.  promise  me,  she  would  ask  of  him  with  gentle  hands  of  ivory,  without  ash  and  without  the  cold  of  death  nor  heat  of  unforgiving  flames,  cupping  his  face.  a  morbid  thought  of  coping,  as  though  this  were  a  natural  ordeal  of  time.  as  if  enough  time  has  appropriately  passed  and  this  were  more  of  a  deathbed’s  final  calling  of  an  elderly  queen  as  opposed  to  the  vicious  martyrdom  of  a  matriarch  uninvolved  in  the  petty  affairs  of  another’s  war.  if  he  closes  his  eyes,  he  will  see  the  shadow  of  her  back  before  him  in  place  of  a  spectral,  being  consumed  by  fires  intended  for  him.  the  ghost  remains  a  necessity,  his  only  source  of  comfort  and  retention  of  sanity.  be  a  good  and  just  king,  she  asks  of  him. 

  how?  he  would  ask,  lip  quivering  and  feeling  younger  than  a  boy  of  ten - and - six.  how  can  he  be  a  good  and  just  king  when  he  knows  so  little  of  how  to  simply  be  a  king?  tenebrae  needs  him.  the  people  depend  upon  him  now.  and  here  he  sits,  nursing  his  wounds  and  imprisoned  in  his  own  castle  as  though  a  child  sent  to  their  room  without  supper  for  throwing  a  tanturm.

  but  she  does  not  answer.  she  is  only  a  depiction  in  his  own  mind,  and  so  this  version  of  his  mother  cannot  supply  any  much  needed  advice  anymore  than  he  can  think  a  solution  for  himself.  be  good  to  your  sister,  she  asks  of  him,  protect  her.  this,  she  asks  of  him.  as  if  he  can  protect  himself.  but  he  must  remember,  must  no  longer  think  of  himself.  they  will  come  for  her  like  coyotes  circling  outside  their  door,  scratching  and  begging  to  be  let  in.  they  will  come  for  her  magic  and  drain  the  life  of  her  for  it.  with  her  death,  hope  falls.  (  he  is  king  /  he  is  disposable. )  she  is  indispensable.  above  all  else,  she  is  his  sister.  he  cannot  lose  her.  he  cannot.  

    ❝   i  don’t  know.   ❞  he  answers  honestly.  there  is  so  little  he  can  give  her  now.  but  he  owes  her  this.  he  will  not  create  facades  for  her,  even  though  she  deserves  the  preservation  of  innocence,  something  tells  him  that  doing  so  is  akin  to  a  death  sentence.  she  must  survive,  above  all  else.   ❝   they  won’t  kill  us.  we’re  too  vauluable.  but  we  aren’t  invincible.  we  have  to  be  careful  now,  always  keep  close --  ❞

  he  had  reached  out  to  her  to  place  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  but  this  triggers  a  sharp  reaction,  and  he  hisses  midsentence  in  pain.  his  arm  stings  still,  despite  the  treatment  given.  if  anything,  he  wonders  sourly,  perhaps  he  has  purposefully  been  given  a  botched  job.  perhaps  they’ll  let  an  infection  fester  and  take  his  arm  from  him.  they  have  already  robbed  him  of  his  home  --  what  is  the  cost  of  an  arm  and  a  leg  now,  too?  but  he  cannot  share  these  upsetting  sentiments  with  her.  he  must  be  honest  with  her,  but  he  mustn’t  vent  to  her.  he  steadies  himself  with  slow,  exhausted  breaths.

   HE  PRAYS  TO  THE  GODS  FOR  A  SPELL.  /  LET  THE  BOY  OF  SIXTEEN  BECOME  A  WISE  AND  WELL - EQUIPPED  MAN  NOW.  as  if  lightning  will  crackle  down  from  the  sky  and  turn  him  into  such.  as  if,  in  an  instant,  he  will  become  a  lionheart  and  all  will  follow.  it  does  not  happen,  of  course.  but  it  never  hurts  to  want,  never  hurts  to  ask.  there  is  unnerving  silence  from  the  gods,  even  now.  but  surely  there  is  a greater  purpose  beyond  all  that?  he  surmises  his  mother  would  say  something  like  that.

  he  kneels  down  to  her,  at  eye - level  now.  he  is  ashamed  of  circumstances  beyond  his  control  and  how  little  he  can  give  her.  he  cannot  create  a  happier  world  for  her  nor  shield  her  from  the  horrors  of  this.  a  frightful,  pessimistic  part  of  his  mind  is  warning  him  now  that  things  will  worsen.  but  hopelessness  and  helplessness  will  do  little.  and  then  he  realizes,  that  while  he  cannot  create  a  facade  of  the  world  for  her,  he  can  compose  one  of  himself  for  her: a  fearless,  all - knowing  brother.  

     ❝  we’re  going  to  be  alright,   ❞  he  assures  her.  a  spark  comes  alive  in  his  eyes  as  he  speaks  a  feverish  vow.   ❝  and  they’re  not  going  to  get  away  with  this.  the  people  of  tenebrae  will  never  forget.  and  their  king  will  never  forgive.  ❞

    ORPHANED  AND  DETHRONED.  /  THERE  IS  A  LACK  OF  WORD  FOR  ONE  WITHOUT  A  SIBLING.  it  is  an  unimaginable  concept  for  souls  inseparable  as  theirs.  this  is  a  concept  which  ravus  has  learned  to  fear  for  well  over  a  decade  now.  it  is  a  ragged  torment  that  festers  within,  a  cold  paralyzing  hand  which  grips  him  through  sleepless  nights.  it  whispers  to  him  prophecies  of  the  inevitable  --  you  will  lose  her,  it  sneers  matter - of - factly,  as  you  have  lost  others  before.  he  is  blind  to  recognize  that,  in  essence,  he  has  already  lost  her.  (  in  this  uniform,  he  is  a  pale  imitation  of  the  boy - king  brother  she  would  run  to  embrace ;  he  has  embraced  the  very  thing  he  promised  to  destroy )  and  now. . . 

    ❝   you’re  sick.   ❞   he  observes,  tone  indecipherable.  indecisive.  he  is  visibly  shaking  and  no  soothing  words  or  prayers  will  quell  him  --  is  it  rage  or  fright?  rage  at  his  failures  or  fright  for  knowing  what  is  coming?  --  and  he  has  nearly  lost  control  at  the  forceful  grip  of  her  hands;  hands  white  as  sheets,  dreadful  and  thin  and  cold.  how  was  he  so  amiss  to  the  signs?    

   ❝  i  will  send  word  to  the  emperor  myself;  consequences  be  damned.  you  are  no  longer  partaking  in  this  little  circus  display  of  healing,  do  you  understand  me?  ❞